


you can go sleep at home tonight

by impossiblepluto



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Episode: s02e19 Stalker, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 23:55:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20236471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblepluto/pseuds/impossiblepluto
Summary: Missing scene and epilogue for "Stalker."





	you can go sleep at home tonight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [badwolfrun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwolfrun/gifts).

> "you can go sleep at home tonight  
if you can get up and walk away"  
-The Who
> 
> I was always going to eventually write a Stalker coda... but when I figured out the title while writing the "Who Are You?" coda I couldn't wait to finish it

His face is blurry. Thick glasses. Thinning hair, but the features elusive. Nick squints, trying to bring the face into focus. Something he can use, anything to identify the man. He glances towards the walls, hoping for a photograph, something, but they're blank. Stark white, and just as blurry as the face.

He grabs Nick's wrist, twisting it, using it for leverage, forcing Nick's legs to step back, trying to ease the shooting pain through his wrist.

Nick yells at his legs to stop moving. Calls out to Warrick for help. Screams at himself to fight back, but he can't force the words through his throat. A croak that can't be heard over the sound of the man's heavy breathing.

He shouldn't be able to get the upper hand. He's smaller than Nick. Shouldn't be able to force Nick to move. Nick tries to hold his position. Locks his knees, digs in his heels, but he's still scooting backwards across the floor. Tries to fight back, take a step forward, but he can't move his feet.

Nick thought he'd wake up from the nightmare when he started falling. That the thud of hitting the ground would jar him from his restless sleep.

It doesn't.

Shards of glass shattering around him. He can see the man's face through the broken window, just for a moment it's clear between the cracked panes glass.

Branches snap under his weight. Doing nothing to slow his fall.

Down.

Down.

He's going to land on his back. He mentally calculates the acceleration of falling from the second floor. Arms and legs flailing, attempting to slow his descent. Worried that he'll be paralyzed if he lands on his spine.

His body meets the ground with a jarring thud that he feels tingle through every nerve ending. Air driven from his lungs. He can't remember how to breathe, just little gasps of pain and terror as his body tries to come back online.

He can't move. Can't think. Can't breathe.

Can only stare at the blue sky. Broken branches. Shattered window.

Through the buzzing in his head, he can hear his name. Concerned green eyes appear over him. Yelling his name. Telling him to answer. Calling for assistance.

He wants to answer. Tell Warrick he's fine. Tell him that it hurts and he can't breathe. Tell him about the face in the window, staring down at him. Watching him.

Always watching him from overhead.

Warrick turns to look at the window, and Nick feels relieved that someone else will see the small slimy man who's always staring, creeping, stalking. But Warrick doesn't see him.

Nick tries to move, to point towards the window, to get up from this vulnerable position on his back on the ground.

"No, no, stay down, man," Warrick instructs, placing his hand on Nick's chest and holding him down with ease. It's too easy.

Shouldn't be able to keep Nick from moving with so little effort.

"Rick," Nick gasps.

"Stay still, Nicky," Warrick says. "Until the paramedics get here. Gotta make sure you didn't break your hard head."

Nick's eyes start to slide closed.

"Uh-uh, man. Don't go to sleep yet. You hear me?"

"Yeah."

"Then open those eyes."

"Did you see him?"

"Nah, too busy making sure your brains aren't sliding out your ears. Don't want to have to explain that to Griss."

"He's watching."

Warrick spins to look back at the windows, eyes scanning for any sign that they're being observed. "There's no one up there, Nick. He's probably long gone."

"No, he's up there." The words march through Nick's head in time with the pulsing drumbeats of pain. He's up there. He's watching.

"Nick." Nick almost laughs at the high pitched tone of Warrick's voice. Will tease him about it later, that his worry made his voice change. It doesn't sound like Warrick, it sounds like...

"Nick."

Sara.

Nick slowly opens his eyes. The broken window and blue sky replaced by dim lighting of a hospital room. The hospital bed a slight improvement from the hard ground under his back.

"Are you awake?" Sara asks, leaning towards the bed.

"Think so..." It hurts to breathe. His head still throbbing, pulsing, like it's pushing away everything else, making it hard to think.

"What happened?" His eyes drift across the room.

"What do you remember?"

Nick frowns. She's investigating. Doesn't want to lead him.

"We were checking out the cable guy's house. Is he the stalker?"

"Grissom and Catherine went back to check it out, but if he's not he's got a weird way of treating guests. Did you get a look at him?"

Nick closes his eyes, trying to remember. "There wasn't much in the house. Like a chair and a toaster. He wasn't there and then all of a sudden he was." Nick shakes his head, grimacing. "Warrick didn't see him either?"

"No, he was outside, then went to help you. He thought you were dead."

Nick sighs. Honestly, Nick thought he was dead too.

"Anything else you can remember?"

"There was a glove. Stained with hair dye, I think. Probably from Jane Galloway. Tell Cath it's in a bin under the sink. Maybe we'll get lucky and get a print." Nick attempts to sit up in the bed, groaning as his chest protests the idea.

"Hey, take it easy," Sarah puts her hand against Nick's shoulder. Holding him down with minimal effort. "You've got a couple broken ribs, on top of that sprained wrist. And some of the most colorful bruising I've ever seen."

"Photographs?"

"Warrick got them, in the emergency room."

Nick's brows furrow. Piecing together bits of dreams and memories. Laying on the ground, a bush underneath him, the prickle of some sort of pine needles against the bare skin of his back where his shirt hiked up during the fall. Warrick forcing him to stay down until EMS arrived, even though the hard ground made his back ache.

A cervical collar strapped around his neck, and the paramedics strapping him to a backboard. He's never felt more vulnerable than lying there, helpless, unable to move, unable to even trace the actions of the doctors and nurses assessing him, the c-collar effectively blinding him to the world. They could see him, examine him, but he couldn't see them.

"How long are they gonna make me stay?"

"You were thrown out a window."

"I just want to go home."

Sara places her hand on his shoulder. "The doctor said she might let you leave later, as long as you rest."

"That's good. I'll sleep better at home, where there aren't people watching my every move."

* * *

  
"I've got it," Nick growls as Warrick tries to help him from the front seat.

"Just trying to help, man," Warrick says, pulling back his arm and holding up his hands in mock surrender.

"I know," Nick says softly. "But I've got to do it myself." He closes his eyes and takes as deep a breath as he dares with his broken ribs and leverages himself out of the car. Panting as he stands for a moment to regain his equilibrium.

"I'm good," he wheezes, not opening his eyes, but feeling Warrick and Sara hovering. As they've been hovering since he woke up in the hospital. Offering him water, food. Listening intently as the nurse talks him through his discharge paperwork, and the doctor gives him a prescription of vicodin.

He just wants to be alone, in his house. Safe. Away from prying eyes, and hovering hands. And sleep in his own bed.

"I'll run ahead and open the door. Put the rest of this stuff away," Sara volunteers, holding up the grocery bags.

"Chicken." Nick hears Warrick mutter under his breath. He almost laughs. He's the most even-keeled of the three youngest CSIs. Has put up with their mood swings and grousing for years. And after today, he has earned the right to be a little grouchy.

He's never been so happy to be home. Such a relief when the doctor confirmed she'd discharge him so he could go sleep at home, thought for sure he'd be spending the night in the hospital. There was a moment, while flying through the air where he wondered if he'd ever go home again. As he laid on the ground, trying to remember how to breath where he wondered if the force of the fall paralyzed him and his lungs.

He looks around the living room and feels a little lost. Like something isn't quite right. Must be the concussion. And the pain meds.

"Groceries are in the fridge," Sara says, coming from the kitchen. "You were out of almost everything."

"You spending all your off hours somewhere else?" Warrick teases.

"No," Nick rolls his eyes. "I've just been going through a lot of milk and bread lately." He frowns. Didn't he just buy the essentials a few days ago?

"Do you need a vicodin?" Warrick asks, observing Nick's stiff movements and tension lined face.

"No, I'm good," Nick waves off the offer.

"You sure, man? Looks like that walk from the car took a lot out of you."

"Don't you guys have a case to go solve?"

"Alright, we'll take a hint," Warrick says, putting the prescription bottle on the counter.

Sara pats Nick's arm as she heads for the door. "Get some rest. We've got it."

Warrick waits until Sara leaves. "You sure you're good?"

"I'll be fine."

Warrick watches him for a minute, assessing. "Alright. I'll stop by in the morning after shift," he says finally, heading for the door.

"You don't have to do that."

"And take the damn pills, Nicky. Don't be a hero."

The door clicks behind Warrick and Nick stands in the middle of his living room, not sure what to do next. If he were coming off shift he'd usually eat something, but his stomach rolls at the idea. His head still pounding and eyes sensitive to light so he has no interest in trying to catch up on the game he recorded.

He's not usually home in the middle of the night, and he spent the last few hours in the hospital sleeping so his circadian rhythm is more messed up than normal. He feels too wired to sleep, and his ribs are making themselves known.

He's feeling every single one of his thirty years, plus a few extra. A spasm in his back convinces him that maybe the vicodins aren't such a bad idea. He'll give in, take the pain meds and crash on the couch for a few hours. The semi-reclined position sounds more comfortable than trying to sleep in his bed right now.

He's just grateful to be sleeping at home tonight.

* * *

  
Brass follows the uniformed officers up the walk at a brisk pace. Urgency in his steps. His thoughts racing after Grissom's call that the Galloway stalker might be watching Nick. That the Galloway murder might have been to get Nick's attention. Every time Brass thinks he's heard it all, along comes another scumbag with more disturbing actions, and an extra layer of creep in his motives.

He's going to sweep Nick's house himself, just to be sure. Not that he doesn't trust his men, but Nick's special. And it gives him a chance to make sure the young criminalist is fine after his swan dive out a window.

The idea that some murderer got his hands on one of the CSIs, and tossed him from a second story window, makes Brass' blood burn. He stopped by the hospital for a few minutes, but the younger man was asleep, and he has never been one for a bedside vigil.

He can imagine Nick's annoyance to the invasion of his privacy, wanting to lick his wound in private. He's going to have to put up with a little extra security until they figure out what the hell is going on.

They're just reaching the door, hopes Grissom called ahead to warn Nick they're coming, and they aren't going to wake him up from much deserved rest, when the too familiar sounds of gunshots echo from inside the house. The uniforms react immediately, breaking through the door, guns draw.

Nick is grappling with a greasy little man over a gun.

There's a body on the floor, covering in plaster and broken beams. Dust trickling from the ceiling. The officers rush forward, bodily getting between Nick and the stalker. Nick stumbles back as the officers secure the suspect.

Brass moves towards Nick. He's still holding the gun aloft. Breathing heavily from exertion or pain or fear. All three. Eyes wide, wildly roving the scene in front of him, pupils blown.

Brass moves in slowly, catches Nick's eye as he steps closer, trying not to spook the already startled man.

"Hey," he whispers making sure he's got Nick's attention. His hand slides up to brace the back of Nick's neck. "It's done."

Nick lets out a shuddering breath. "Yeah."

"Yeah, it's done," Brass says again.

Tears fill Nick's eyes, he keeps his gaze down towards the floor.

"Nicky, look at me," Brass instructs.

Nick shakes his head.

"Yeah, come on, up here, Nick."

Slowly, Nick raises his gaze.

"That's it," Brass says when Nick makes eye contact. "You alright?"

Nick licks his lips. "Yeah," he pants, nodding slowly. His breath coming in short hitching gasps.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm sure." He's still distracted, almost just repeating Brass' words.

"Nick, tell them. We're friends. More than friends. We're the same. Nick. Nick!" One of the officer muscles Crane out of the house. He continues to yell, and Nick's eyes follow the scene.

"O'Brien's gonna bag the gun for us," Brass says, talking him through the next steps as Nick slowly passes off the firearm to the officer. Reluctantly, treating Nick like a victim, walking him through the process. Keeping his hand on Nick to help steady him. He can feel Nick shaking under his hands.

"It's--it's mine," Nick says. "Keep it in the table there." He gestures towards the table near the splintered door, flinching when he notices it. "Nigel, Nigel Crane, he knew it was there. He's been watching me. Wearing-- wearing my clothes. Probably eating my food." Nick's gaze falls back to the floor and to Maurice Pearson. "Didn't hear a shot though, so I don't know how he..."

"Alright, alright, come on Nick, let's get out of here," Brass says.

"Yeah, I guess. It's a crime scene now." Nick doesn't move. He gives a short huff. "Nigel wanted to give me a crime scene. As a... a gift."

"We're gonna take care of it," Brass says, sliding his hand from the back of Nick's neck towards his shoulder, using it to guide the younger man from the room, and into the cool night air. Nick shivers. "You hurting anywhere?" Brass asks again, now that Nick's head seems to be clearing.

"Um," Nick frowns, pauses, assessing himself. "Nowhere new."

"You need a medic?"

Nick shakes his head.

Brass settles him in the front seat of his sedan. "You hit your head?" He asks, not liking the way Nick is slow to respond to his questions.

"No," Nick gives a small smile. "Not again. Already got a concussion though."

"You sure you should be out of the hospital?"

"The doctor said I was fine to leave. She gave me pain meds and sent me home," Nick shrugs.

"Yeah? You sweet talk her into an early discharge?"

"I don't think so."

Brass frowns. "Gil's on his way. Probably the rest of grave too. You want me to call anybody for you?"

Headlights dance across the front yard, illuminating the squad cars as Nick declines the offer.

A cacophony follows. "Nick!" "Nicky!" the various voices of his team mates as they pile out of vehicles. Nick shoots a pained look to Brass as they descend on him. Asking if he's alright. If he's hurt. What happened. It's all too much for Nick's already concussed, drugged and overemotional brain.

"Alright, back up. Give the man some space," Brass says, intervening. "He's not any more broken than when you left him." 

* * *

After.

He doesn't know what to do after.

What the victims do.

He's not a victim. Except that he is.

They take his statement, and take new photos. They bring him back to the lab where Nick watches from the observation room as Nigel slowly loses what's left of his unstable mind.

_"I am one, who am I?"_

Who are you?

Why me?

Grissom muses philosophically, but Nick barely hears it. It's not over. No matter what anyone says. He has to live with this. Carry this with him. 

The team trickles out of the observation room, back to their cases. He doesn't often think about the victims, and the afters. The homes that are now crime scenes, and where they go if they can't go sleep in their homes.

Even if they finished processing the scene, his home, he can't go back there tonight. Can't deal with the mess or the idea of a body on his living room floor. Or a hole in his ceiling. Or a man living in his attic for who knows how long. Stealing his clothes. Eating his food. Watching. Recording his every move as he eats and drinks and brings a friend home for a pleasant evening.

It's all on tapes he realizes, and wonders who will have the unfortunate task of watching hours of Nick living. Reading a book.

Catching up on a game. Singing karaoke as he makes breakfast.

Nigel touched every part of his life. Moved his stuff. Watching him shower. Saw him in every private intimate moment that should be safe from prying eyes.

Home doesn't evoke feelings of safety or security or comfort. Instead, he feels exposed. Insecure and unprotected. Every moment of his life on display.

After he feels like he might break down, alone in that observation room as his team goes back to their lives, and his thoughts too exhausted, too incoherent to figure out what to do next.

Warrick returns a few minutes later, with a change of clothes from his locker, which are probably safe because they've been here at the lab for a few weeks, and takes him home.

"Hey man, you ready to head out?"

Nick is hurting, fresh bruises from tonight on top of not-so-old bruises from this afternoon, his ribs protesting, and his head pounding and he wants nothing more than to go to bed. Wake up and have this be a nightmare. Maybe Warrick can drop him at a hotel, he can't deal with going back to the house tonight.

"Uh, yeah," Nick carefully pats down his pockets. "I don't have my wallet." He looks up at Warrick and can feel prickling in the back of his eyelids. Every emotion too close to the surface in the dim light of the lab at three in the morning.

"It's alright, shouldn't be driving with the pain meds and concussion anyway."

"But a hotel-"

"Nah, you're coming to my place, man. I'm not turning you loose after today."

The walk out of the lab and the drive to Warrick's is a blur of shadows and too bright lights.

Warrick steers him into the house, and into the bedroom, despite Nick's protests, that he can take the couch.

Pulling out a pair of sweatpants and t-shirt, Warrick clears his throat. "You need some help with those?"

Nick shakes his head. "I can do it."

"Brass grabbed your meds on the way out the door. Do you know when you last took them?"

"Uh, right, right before...everything."

Warrick looks at his watch. "You can probably have another dose now. I'll get you some water." He exits, giving Nick some privacy to change.

Trying to use his right hand, and pulling his shirt over protesting ribs leaves him huffing, and holding onto the dresser for support. He knows Warrick is purposefully giving him time, because grabbing a bottle of water doesn't take this long. He's grateful, but a little embarrassed that Rick can see his weakness so clearly.

After much too long, Nick is changed and Warrick comes back, cracking the lid of the water bottle before passing it to Nick.

Nick licks his lips. It's so tempting, the relief from pain, the beckoning call of sleep. "I don't know if I should. Maybe my reactions wouldn't have been so slow if I hadn't taken them. I could have stopped Crane."

"Take the damn pills, Nicky," Warrick repeats the words from earlier. "I got it tonight, okay?"

Nick hesitates, just for a minute, but the need to put this day aside is too strong.

"Yeah, okay," he gives in, swallowing down the pills that promise relief and hopefully dreamless sleep.

It's not home. It's not his own bed. But it's safe. It's private. No one watching him from above and for tonight it will work. Tomorrow he can figure out everything else.


End file.
